


Foresight

by tmelange



Category: DCU Comicverse, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time Meeting, Justice Lords, M/M, Plot-Intensive, Time Travel, Young Clark or Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justice League Toonsverse, based on the Justice Lords episode. A mature Bruce goes back in time to prevent teenager Clark from making a wrong choice that will compromise their future happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foresight

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2006.
> 
> Requires some general knowledge of the _Justice League Animated_ series episode called _A Better World_ and the **Justice Lords** alternative dimension established therein.
> 
> Story commentary found [HERE](http://tmelange.livejournal.com/151977.html).

Slowly, Bruce opened his eyes to the familiar shadows of his bedroom, the red-tinged dream drifting away from his subconscious like the soft roll of smoke. There was a heavy weight over his midsection, pinning him. Instinctively, he started to struggle, stopped struggling when he got his bearings, recognized Clark's soft breathing, the unique feel of his teammate curled into his side, and, instead, eased carefully away and off the bed.

He looked over his shoulder, to ensure his bedmate was still asleep. Clark's breathing was slow, even. The profile of his face was beautiful in the soft fall of moonshine, serene, peaceful. The harsh lines and deep frown that seemed to be his only demeanor these days was a faded memory.

 _Like the best parts of our relationship._

Bruce retrieved a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the armoire, and made short work of slipping them on. The digital clock by the bed said it was only half past midnight. There was still much to be done in Gotham City, even though the Justice Lords had established effective martial control over law enforcement more than three months ago—right after Superman had killed President Luthor—and had managed to round up and neutralize almost half of the most dangerous criminals in America. But despite their many successes, it took time to track down each super powered lunatic, and, by necessity, the petty criminals—the thieves, drug dealers, mobsters—had to wait their turn. But not in Gotham. If a new day had dawned, a day where they all agreed—as the Justice Lords—that the ends justified the means, that deadly force was necessary to stop the endless cycle of violence—then Gotham City would be the first to benefit. He'd make sure of it.

 _So close._ So close to his dream of a world with no crime, no victims, no pain. Why wasn't that enough?

He was almost to the door when the whisper of words he was hoping to avoid reached his ears, halting him.

"You used to stay. You used to like to be here when I woke up."

His hand was resting on the doorknob. He didn't turn around but he tilted his head towards his shoulder, hesitated just long enough to be courteous. "Things change."

"For the better, Bruce."

 _"You've changed."_

Silence greeted his whispered accusation. Bruce waited one second longer, two, then turned the doorknob and headed downstairs to the Batcave.

:-:

"Oracle."

Barbara Gordon's confident voice answered immediately. "Yes, B?"

"Where's Superman?"

A blip appeared on the map on his main computer screen. "He's in Malaysia, organizing disaster relief."

"And the rest of the Justice Lords?"

"Wonder Woman, Green Lantern and Hawkgirl are with Superman. J'onn is at the Watchtower as usual." She paused. "But he's coordinating the relief efforts from there, so I'd say he's pretty busy."

"Thank you. Batman out."

He caught her grumbled, "Sure, it's not like I have anything better to do than to keep tabs on your teammates. Not like there're any _criminals_ to monitor," before he hit a button and cut her off.

Reasonably confident that he wouldn't be caught unawares by the unexpected teleportation into his private space by one of the other Justice Lords, Batman initiated the sequence that would allow him to view the other dimension—the dimension he had found six months ago. The alternate place that was just like his world except Wally was still alive, Lex Luthor had never been elected president, and the Justice Lords had never come to be. Instead, that alternate world had a Justice _League,_ and somehow, somehow, Superman was still…the man that stood for truth, justice—all that was good and right; Clark was still the man Bruce had come to know, admire, respect, trust. _Love._

That Superman still existed, in another place, and Bruce couldn't stop himself from watching him on the computer screen. It was as close as he'd ever get.

 _"They'd love it here."_ The words had been full of bitter scorn.

 _"Who?"_ he had asked his black-garbed double.

 _"Mom and Dad. They'd be so proud of you."_

That other Batman—he had known exactly what to say.

So easy for what had seemed a good plan to go awry. Six months ago, Batman had convinced the Justice Lords to bring their version of law and order to that alternate world, and just as easily allowed his double to convince him that his parents would be ashamed of the world the Justice Lords had made _here._ So he had betrayed Superman and the other Lords, and assisted the Justice League in returning to their own world in time to thwart his teammates. When the Lords had been thrown back into their own dimension, Batman had been sure that nothing pointed to his involvement in the League's escape. He acted the victim who had been outsmarted by his doppelganger. But even as Superman commiserated, his eyes said he knew he had been betrayed, and anything Batman might have wanted to do to change… _anything_ …was immediately placed beyond his grasp. He had lost the trust of his teammate, his best friend—his lover. He was blocked at every turn by the most powerful man on the planet.

And still, the image on the computer screen mocked him, the familiar primary colors—the beautiful light that shone bright enough to warm the whole world. Did that other Batman—the one who disdained all personal relationships, that ignored the constant concern, the hesitant overtures, the admiring glances that Superman couldn't help but send his way—even know what he was throwing away? _If I had another chance, I would do it all differently—_

"What are you doing, Batman?"

His finger slipped over a key, blanking the screen. He swiveled in his chair. "Monitoring the rebuilding of Arkham," he replied smoothly to the man in navy and white who was now standing at the mouth of the cave. "The Justice League destroyed a good portion of the building during their escape," Batman grumbled, "and it'll be another two months until everything is put to rights." Superman must have flown here, Batman realized, rather than use the teleporter, or else Batman would have heard the telltale sounds of the teleporter pad starting up and been warned. "What are you doing here?"

Superman's eyes flicked to the computer screen then over to Batman's face. There was a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that told Batman he might not have been fast enough in hiding the evidence of his obsession. "Can't a guy check on his significant other once and a while?" Superman said, making a slow, prowling circuit around the batmobile and ending at Batman's side, looming over his chair.

Batman got to his feet.

"We haven't spent any…time…together in a while, Bruce."

Batman scoffed. "Time. There are a lot of things more important than us spending _time_ together," he said, and made to move away, but Superman's hand came down heavy on his shoulder, stopping him.

"I would think you'd have quite a bit of free _time,"_ Superman said lightly. "Unless you're spending it all spying on that other dimension." Superman paused, eyebrow raised. "You haven't been doing _that,_ have you, Bruce?"

Batman shrugged his shoulder, trying to throw off the strong hand that was effectively keeping him from storming away. "Don't be stupid," he responded when it became clear that Superman wasn't going to let him go. Instead, the Man of Steel made of his grip a caress of sorts, moving his hand from shoulder to the curve of Batman's neck, bringing it to rest at the back of his head where it waited, gently cupping, the way a person might hold an egg before the first breach of the shell, until those deft fingers started working at his cowl, pulling it back and off his face.

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Bruce?" Superman's voice was low, dangerous. "I'd be very…disappointed…if you were lying—about us being able to get back there."

Bruce scowled, then shivered as that hand made its way to his face and a thumb lightly stroked a path from earlobe to chin. "I already told you," he said, his own voice just as low, just as dangerous, "we can't get back there, at least not now. They have us blocked from their end. I haven't figured out how yet. You have to remember that their Batman thinks exactly the way I do, and anything I can come up with he's likely to anticipate and counter. In time, I'm sure either I or someone at WayneTech will figure out a workaround, but until then—"

Superman's hand had buried itself in Bruce's hair, stroking small circles into his scalp. It was almost enough to make him forget that he was playing a very dangerous game with a very dangerous man—one whose limits had long ago ceased to be a known quantity. Almost.

"And your spying?" Superman was pushing and pulling at him, maneuvering him backwards until he bumped into the computer console and moving in close. Soon they would be kissing, Bruce knew, and the shame of it was that he welcomed it. Not simply because it would put an end to the questioning, but also because it was only in the small spaces between their increasingly violent lovemaking that he could recapture any of that bright light he used to live in, any of the tattered remains of a feeling he had once been so sure was enough to sustain him in this life and the next.

"It's—" Bruce caught his breath as a knee spread his legs, and a strong hand made its way under his utility belt, working at the junction of the top and bottom halves of his body armor, ripping through latches and Kevlar as if it were made of tissue paper; until that hand had unfettered access to his cock and started massaging him expertly. "I—I'm just doing surveillance," he said with a reluctant moan. "You know how I am about gathering information."

Superman was all over him, pushing until he was laid back across the computer console, starting in on his neck, biting at his lips, the curve of his ear, hungrily. And all the while that inexorable hand was on his cock, teasing, caressing. The computer beeped in protest at the abuse, but Bruce had presence of mind enough to reach out a hand and swat the power switch.

"You could get Oracle to do it," came a husky voice in his ear. "Why you? Every time I look for you I find you here, glued to that screen—who are you watching, my Dark Knight?" The grip on his cock became firm, almost brutal. Bruce stiffened. "You wouldn't be watching _him?"_

Bruce froze. Superman nipped at his bottom lip before pulling back marginally, so Bruce could see the red just starting to swirl in the depths of his blue eyes.

"Him…? The other Superman?" Bruce scoffed, raised an eyebrow. "Are you jealous of a computer image, Clark?" He shook his head, brought his hands up so he could pull off his gloves, buried his freed hands in Clark's hair and pulled him in for a kiss that was as gentle as it was bittersweet. "Why would I be watching him when I could be with the real thing?"

That unsure quality that was so reminiscent of the old Clark settled on the man's beautiful face, turning his eyes a stormy gray. "I don't know, Bruce. I was wondering the same thing."

"It's just surveillance, Clark," Bruce said with an exasperated tone and a small smile. "It's what I _do._ Nothing more. You know how I am. Don't read something crazy into it."

Clark sighed and pulled him closer. "Good," he said in a low voice, and already his hands had resumed their assault on his body, firmly pleasant in places, in others, firm enough to be hurtful. "Good," he repeated. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you, Bruce. You're the only thing…the only thing that matters…"

Bruce tuned him out, enjoyed the raw physicality; reveled in the memories. Ignored the reality of the situation. And when the inevitable summons came that required Superman's immediate presence—being the world's dictator was a twenty-four hour job, after all—Batman merely shrugged, straightened, ignored the soreness, the bruises, and the vicious indentations in his flesh made by rough sex up against a computer console, growled in disgust at the state of the bottom half of his batsuit, and the blood and the semen all over _everything._ Washed up in the cave's facilities; secured a new batsuit; started on the clean-up of his work area—

Until he could no longer resist flipping the switch, and starting the process, and sinking into the chair with a grunt of pain and simply watching—as another world's Superman and Batman only had eyes for each other, as they argued good-naturedly in the conference room at the Watchtower while their teammates—including Flash, especially Flash—looked on knowingly, making lascivious comments behind their backs.

There had to be a way to fix this. Something— _something_ —had to change.

:-:

There was something he was missing. If only he could figure it out!

His mind was turning over details, processing and discarding theories even as Clark made rough use of his body. Of course, a part of himself was enjoying the press of flesh, the strong stokes, the way Clark seemed to want to devour every part of him, biting lips, sucking at his collarbone, licking up the small drops of perspiration that coated his skin. And through it all, Clark was inside him, riding him relentlessly, pushing his legs back and up onto broad shoulders, whispering in his ear all the dangerous, illicit things he wanted to do before the night was over or he got called away. A strong hand was around his cock, between their bodies, pumping him, dragging him along on this wild ride.

But still—

There had to be more to their relationship than this. It was as if once that certain line had been crossed, the killing of Luthor all those months ago, Clark had no more room in his heart for anything sublime. He had shut down all the best parts of himself, and they were now both consigned to living like animals.

They reached their climax at the same time, still bound, apparently, by lust, if nothing else. Clark dropped onto him heavily, but at his disgusted groan floated up a bit to relieve the weight, a pleased smirk on his face as they stared at one another. Behind Clark's blue eyes, the night was battling. Was he the only one to see?

Eventually, Clark settled at his side, threw an arm over his midsection in his usual peremptory fashion. Bruce figured it was as good a time as any to test his newest theory.

"Are we going to allow elections?"

Clark's voice was sleepy. "Eventually."

"Eventually, like when?" Bruce growled.

Clark's eyes were still closed but his eyebrows had risen. They were now up about his hairline. "We agreed to allow elections as soon as we were sure the world was safe from violence." Clark yawned. "Safe from violence. I believe those were your words."

Bruce gritted his teeth. "I think we've accomplished that goal, Clark. We should start transitioning back to a normal government."

"We will." Clark reached out and patted his leg as if he were some sort of pet. "Eventually."

Bruce tried to slow his heartbeat. All he needed was Clark to know how truly angry he was. "I was thinking about Wally," he tried. "It's been almost two years since—"

"Come on, Bruce," Clark interrupted, rolling on his side and pulling Bruce in close. "I'm too tired for this."

"We used to talk."

"We used to do a lot of things," Clark mumbled into his shoulder.

"You used to trust me."

 _"I used to trust you,"_ Clark agreed, and the tone of his voice carried a finality that told Bruce that his efforts were pointless. He settled back into the bed, spooned against Clark, waiting for the time that his bedmate would fall asleep and he could finally escape, bury the hatred of this love in research and dim hope.

:-:

Bruce Wayne went through extraordinary lengths to keep his activities a secret. A lead-lined facility in the basement of a WayneTech lab on the outskirts of Gotham with white noise sound dampeners; a next gen, holographic image projector installed in his WayneTower office suite to simulate his presence; a stand-alone replica of the Batcave computer installed in the facility, since he was well aware that Superman had someone monitoring the original; and, of course, the chart and the portal. It was amazing, the lengths a person had to go through to hide certain activities when one's significant other was a super-powered alien.

It was all to protect the chart—the chart he had secured from Jason Blood—and the extra-dimensional portal—the portal he had told Superman he was unable to make work for some indeterminate length of time.

The chart covered the entirety of a thirty-foot wall and represented the whole of recent history, at least as it now stood. The chart was magical, and he had paid Jason dearly for its use. Bruce had resolved on going back in time, to somehow correct what he perceived as his world gone wrong. It was his only viable option, other than killing Superman and the rest of the Lords, and he just…couldn't bring himself to do it, not without exploring this option first. But the question was: At what point to intercede?

He couldn't keep going back and forth in time, trying different points of intercession. Time was delicate, and a wrong move could have catastrophic consequences. He had to pick the _right_ point; he had to jump back only _once._ He had to know in advance the ramifications of his choices. That was where the chart came in.

The chart allowed him to test his theories without actually changing anything. It was like a magical simulator; he would make a change on the chart, and he was able to see exactly what effect it would have on history. This was how he had figured out that saving Wally actually changed nothing meaningful: the Justice Lords were still formed, and they became the eventual rulers of the world, with Superman at the head. Saving Luthor changed nothing: time and again he simulated an intercession on Luthor's behalf only to have Superman kill him at some other point in time. Luthor never seemed to stop in his obsessive hatred of Superman, and the things he did to get the upper hand always managed to push Superman over the edge. Batman had even tried killing Luthor himself, but that only caused an irrevocable rift between himself and Superman for no reason he could ascertain from the chart—and still, Superman went over the edge.

For weeks, Batman combed through the files, watched archived footage of Superman, the other Lords, Lex Luthor, everything that existed in electronic format that chronicled the history of the people involved, and every time he ended up back at the same point—a world where justice was in the hands of a chosen few, where people ran from the Justice Lords in fear; a world where freedom and self-determination were nothing more than conceptual holdovers of a bygone day. And Superman was becoming suspicious. His teammate would never…hurt him permanently, but he would restrict him, confine him to the manor. That was something he knew Superman would do easily and call it acting in his best interest. He was running out of time.

Again and again, he came back to tapes of the fateful day in the oval office, the day Superman killed President Luthor. That event had to be the crux, it had to be, but why didn't the prevention of the killing change the chart?

Bruce fast-forwarded to Luthor standing behind the desk in the oval office with his finger over a red button, threatening to detonate a weapon of mass destruction unless Superman backed down.

"There are at least six different ways I could stop you right now," Superman said, eyes hard, determined.

Luthor smirked knowingly. "But they all involve deadly force, don't they? And you don't _do_ that."

The look on Superman's face—was it disgust, hatred… _bitterness?_

Bitterness.

"No, you need me," Luthor taunted, and if there was a slight emphasis on _me,_ it was almost imperceptible. "You wouldn't be much of a hero without a villain, and you do _love_ …being a hero, don't you? The cheering children, the swooning _women,_ you love it so much, it's made you my most reliable accomplice."

 _"Accomplice?"_ Bruce could read the horror on Clark's face…and something…else. "What are you—?"

"You could have…crushed me any time you wanted," Luthor continued, but every small pause, every inflection implied unspoken words, meanings—but what, exactly? "And it wasn't the law or the will of the people that stopped you. It was your…ego. Being a _hero_ was too _important_ to you. _You're as much responsible for this as I am._ So go ahead. _Fix it somehow._ Put me on trial; lock me up. But I'll beat it, and we'll just start the whole thing _all over again."_

Clark was silent for a moment. There was pain in his blue eyes, Bruce could see it clearly, but then those eyes that he knew so well hardened, darkened into stormy oceans. "I did love…being a hero," he said slowly. "But if this is where it leads, _I'm done with it."_

Eyes glowed red. Bruce turned away from the recording, turned back to see himself and Diana arrive in the oval office to take in the aftermath. Made sure to witness his personal betrayal of everything they had held dear.

 _"Well, it had to be done."_

He had tried changing his own assent to the act, and found it actually changed nothing. It made it no less bitter, though, to know he had so readily agreed to this madness.

Batman sighed. He had run out of ideas. Clearly, the crux of it was Clark and Luthor but there was no way of knowing what needed to be done, not now, not when his relationship with Superman was in shambles and at any moment he could expect to be in some way neutralized. His Superman didn't trust him enough to tell him _anything._

He flipped a switch on the computer console to check in with the Justice League dimension, found Clark sitting on the top of the Metropolis observatory, holding a batarang in his hand, studying it—and it came to him. The solution.

It was hard to pull his eyes away from the image so carefully studying the batarang, as if all the answers in the world were contained within the sharp curves of the small black weapon. Bruce's stomach churned and sank and melted as he weighed pros and cons in his head. His Superman no longer trusted him, but the Justice League Superman trusted Batman with his life. And he was as much Batman as the other. He could get the answers he needed from this other Superman.

As his stomach fluttered and roiled, he knew it would be the easiest thing in the world—seducing this Superman. All it would take was a little planning.

:-:

Clark Kent received the envelope while he was sitting at his desk at the Daily Planet eating a sandwich and working on his copy for Saturday's edition. The outer script was in Bruce's inimitable handwriting, and it was all Clark could do to open the envelope with a modicum of dignity. Why would Bruce be sending him a…letter. Invitation.

It was an invitation with instructions. Careful, inexplicable instructions, and a proviso asking Clark to forego the questions and to just trust him.

Clark held the missive in his hands, settled his stomach, tucked the envelope into the pocket of his suit jacket, and finished his copy. He submitted what would be expected of him for the next seven days and went down to personnel to arrange to take a week of emergency sick leave.

Then he packed a few things and flew to the specified coordinates in…Fiji.

:-:

Clark came walking down the deserted beach just as the sun was starting its final dip over the horizon, and Bruce doubted he had ever seen anything as stunning as the sun setting over Clark's shoulder. He had his pants rolled up, and a small bag, and the wind had wreaked havoc with his hair. Clark was smiling— _smiling_ —at him, for him, and it was enough to erase any doubt in Bruce's mind at the deception he was about to practice.

"Bruce," Clark said hesitantly as he approached, with a perplexed smile and a hand that tried to smooth his hair in the strong wind.

"Clark. I'm glad you came."

"Of course." Clark set his bag down in the sand, his eyes sweeping the area, taking in the bure nestled in the raintrees at the top of the hill, the pavilion by the water; the boat at the dock. "It's not very often that you ask me to do something for you. Though the note was a bit cryptic. What's up? And what are we doing way out here? I thought you were going to be busy working on the Arkham break-out."

Bruce picked up Clark's bag and motioned for him to follow. "I was, but we wrapped it up quicker than I expected." They walked side-by-side over to the gently sloping hill, and up to the bure at the top. Bruce pulled back the screen door on the veranda and waved Clark inside.

"Thirsty?" Bruce asked. "Juice, water, coffee, tea?"

"Uh, water's fine," Clark said, walking around the living space, inspecting the local décor. "Bruce, about that explanation…"

"Just a minute, Clark," Bruce called out from the kitchen.

Bruce returned to the living room to find Clark staring out of the bay windows. "There's no one on this island," Clark said. He turned, "Did you know that we're the only ones on this island?"

Bruce smiled at Clark's amazement. "I know. I own the island. I usually have wait staff here, at least when I visit, but I sent them home."

"You sent them home? Do you expect me to cook for you? Because, you know, I can't really cook…"

"Sit down, Clark," Bruce said, motioning towards the sofa and taking a seat next to his guest. "I don't expect you to cook for me." He smiled sheepishly. "Actually, I thought I'd try cooking for you. I'm not much of a cook, but Alfred's taught me a thing or two over the years and I think I can get us through a few days without poisoning us." He lowered his voice conspiratorially, "And, there is a cook on the yacht who doubles as the captain, so if I really can't handle this I'm sure he can be persuaded to save us."

"Handle…this?" Clark mumbled, shaking his head. "This…what?"

"Clark, I thought—" Bruce scratched his head. "Maybe I shouldn't think so much." He took a breath. "Clark, I had what you would say was…a close call…the other day—"

"What happened?"

"Not important. What is important is that it made me think. About my life, my legacy."

"You...want to have kids…?" Clark asked, hesitantly.

"No, Clark," Bruce said with a sigh, "I think you should just listen."

"Well, okay, but…"

Bruce waved him off. "I always thought of my legacy in terms of Gotham City, of creating a city where no young boy would ever have to suffer what I had suffered. Along the way I've sacrificed certain…things…so I could better pursue my mission. Over the last few days I've come to realize some of the things I've sacrificed may have been more important than the one thing I've been focusing on so intently for most of my life. The truth of the matter is that my mission can never be accomplished in my lifetime—"

"Bruce—"

"Let me finish. –Or any lifetime. As long as there are people, there will be criminals, and good people will suffer, and other good people will rise up and remedy the injustices, and in the end they will all need to learn what I learned at a young age—how to survive, despite the pain. I would never want to deprive anyone of the journey that has been the crux of my own life, even though fighting crime is my life's work. Do you understand, Clark?"

A hesitant nod.

"I've seen…what my mission, taken to extremes, taken to its absolute conclusion, could mean for my city, the world, and I've come to the realization…that the fight is my legacy, the way and the means, not any one conclusion."

Another nod, and a furrowed brow.

"You're not…giving up being Batman?"

Bruce chuckled. "Of course not. What would I do with myself? It's not like I need to work for a living." He reached out, touched Clark's shoulder. "I just…wanted to explain, give you a frame of reference, for when I did this." Bruce leaned in, slowly, and pressed his lips to Clark's.

Clark tasted of fire, memory, his lips opened and colors burst behind Bruce's eyes like fireworks. _Here_ was the man he had loved, still loved, despite everything. _This_ was the Clark of his dreams before everything had come up ashes. As he felt Clark's breath hitch in his throat, felt the fast patter of a heartbeat as he was pulled in close, Bruce knew that any amount of deception was worth this one moment; that with Clark in his arms, anything was possible. He would fix his world, fix two worlds, just because he had a Superman in his arms that trusted him, that believed in him again.

"Bruce," Clark groaned, pulling away when they both needed air. "What is this? I need…I need an explanation, before my head explodes." He paused, turned distractingly red. "The head on my shoulders, I mean."

"I had no doubt of your meaning," Bruce agreed, trying hard not to smile. Then he answered Clark's question. "I wanted to make…a change. I wanted you to know…how I feel about you. And I wanted us to be by ourselves, and here was as good a place as any, and better than most. I knew if I could just get you here—" He stopped. This was harder than he had expected it to be. What was wrong with this world's Batman, to have deprived himself of this for so long so that a convoluted _explanation_ of something that was so simple was necessary?

He tried again. "My mission might not be a fitting legacy; heroes come and go, and today's accolades inevitably fade. But love—it really does last forever, Clark. I know it. I _feel_ it. Even from their graves my parents' love helps me make the right decisions. And I know if my mother and father had to choose between a perfect Gotham City and my happiness, there would be no choice. And if that's the case, I need to be more careful about what I sacrifice on the altar of my mission."

Clark was silent, and Bruce began to worry that this was, in fact, too much for this world's Clark to absorb all at once. "How long?" Clark finally asked.

"Forever," Bruce said in all seriousness, knowing exactly what Clark meant. "Since the first moment I laid eyes on you."

 _"Why didn't you say something?"_ Clark exploded, and he was up and out of his seat, and across the room, staring out of the window in the blink of an eye.

"You know why, Clark," Bruce said, getting up and following Clark but keeping his distance. "There were so many reasons, and they were all good, proper reasons, appropriate when made."

"And now?"

"Now, everything has changed."

"Just like that?" Clark said, looking over his shoulder.

Bruce nodded. "Just like that." He moved to Clark's side. The sun had set and the full moon had started its journey across the sky.

Clark's hands were in the pockets of his pants. He bounced up on the balls of his feet, two or three times then glanced over. "You think this will work?"

"We'll make it work."

"How long are we here for?"

"I can only stay the week."

"And the Justice League?"

"Taken care of. Everything's covered. Trust me. As a matter of fact, give me your communicator." Clark reached up and pulled the small, round earpiece out of his ear and handed it over.

"You're not going to change your mind?" Clark asked, and Bruce recognized that part of Clark that was always so unsure, so incongruent to his public persona as Superman, that was all country farmboy, and it made Bruce pause. So many things could go wrong. "I can't promise that things won't change again, Clark. Change is a part of life. What I can promise you is this time that we'll spend together, here, and the surety of how I feel about you. That will never change."

:-:

"Tell me something about you, Clark. Something no one else knows."

They were lying on their backs, on the deck of the yacht, in the middle of the ocean, after three blissful days of sun, and sex, and joy beyond the measure of depth or extent. Bruce had a leg draped over Clark's legs possessively. He reveled in the feeling of such possessiveness, and it was only the knowledge of the inexorability of time that made him remember the reason he had come to this place, allowed himself this pleasure at all.

Again at dinner, under the stars, the stars that could not compare to the one that sat across the table from him: "Tell me something else about you, Clark. Something no one else knows."

And the interrogation continued gently, over the course of days, but nothing seemed like the information he needed, until he stumbled across the right line of questioning, completely by accident, as he noticed Clark gazing up at the ceiling one night as they lay in bed.

"Who are you thinking of?"

Clark startled. Looked his way quickly, guiltily. Clark was a terrible liar. "What makes you think I'm thinking of anyone?"

"The wistful look on your face."

"You. How could I think of anyone but you when you keep doing _that?"_

Bruce stilled his hand. He didn't want Clark distracted. "Don't lie to me," he admonished gently, and Clark answered with a blush that was just visible in the pale moonlight. "Tell me—who were you thinking about?"

Clark was silent, arms crossed behind his head. Bruce started a languid stroking of his stomach that was mostly a thumb moving in small circles. "If I guess would you tell me?"

Still, silence.

"Lex."

Clark inhaled sharply. "How do you—"

"I'm not blind, Clark. No one hates the way he hates you without there being a history. No one gets to _you_ the way he does." Bruce paused. This was the part that would make or break his entire plan; that would make a liar of him if it all went wrong. "I don't want you to part with any secret that means so much to you." Bruce raised himself up on an arm, far enough to look into Clark's eyes so he'd know the truth of what he was saying. "But, Clark, I love you. How can I protect you if I don't know your history with him?"

He must have said something right because the floodgates opened, and the story came pouring out, and, of course, it was all about Smallville: about the night Clark attended a dance at his high school, the night a tornado struck; the night Clark learned he could fly, and the aftermath, when Lex Luthor saved his father, Jonathan's, life. It was all about the distant past, before the costume and the cape, when Clark was only fifteen years-old and starting a romance with a twenty-three year-old future criminal mastermind who promised him the world, when Clark was too young to know any better. And it ended with a confession that was bitter to Bruce's ears; that raised bile like a rock at the back of his throat.

"He was so different back then," Clark said in a low voice. "A lot…like you. He was my best friend. I…loved him, Bruce. I loved him more than—" The distress in his voice, it hurt Bruce's heart. "But it was never enough. He wanted more, always more. He wanted every truth, and all I could give him was lies. And he never forgave me. But I loved him. I—"

"He knows Clark Kent is Superman."

Clark nodded.

"And he's never said anything."

Nodded again.

Bruce sighed. "And he keeps your secret because he doesn't really want to hurt you, not deep down, but he torments you because of your heritage, because he's jealous, and bitter over what he perceives as your rejection, that you never trusted him enough to tell him yourself. You love him still because he was your first love, and you don't know how to be anything other than true." _And you love me, because I remind you of him._ It was all so bitterly clear, now that he had all the pieces. They thought they had won, but Lex Luthor was laughing at them from his grave.

"Bruce, I—"

Bruce reached out, covered Clark's mouth with a finger.

"Don't. I don't want you to apologize. I wanted to understand, and you gave me what I asked for. If I don't like what I've heard that's my problem." Slowly, he maneuvered his body so he was covering Clark's, and started a gentle stroking, a positioning of legs, a persistent swaying over and into that was the prelude to a more perfect demonstration of what he was about to say. As he found his way inside of Clark's body, as they settled into a slow movement that was as beautiful as the waves that lulled them to sleep, still twined together, Bruce whispered in Clark's ear the only truth that mattered.

"I'm going to show you, Clark, _my Clark,_ what it means to be loved. I'm going to love you until you forget there ever was a Lex Luthor who touched you when you were too young to know any better. I'm going to seep into you until there's no other past but the past we've created together. You'll be utterly secure in the fact you're well and truly loved. The next time you see him, you'll be as indifferent to him as the stars."

And he repeated it, repeated it. In Clark's ear, against his skin, in his mouth as they kissed; it was the mantra that followed them into their dreams and planted itself there, like the first fragile flower in a garden of midnight.

:-:

Soon after the breakthrough, Bruce fabricated the distress call. He had to leave; he had to return to his own time, take the information he had gained and use it to fix what had been broken. Every moment he delayed held the potential for disaster. Besides, the seed he had planted wasn't his to nurture, to watch grow. It was the responsibility of this world's Batman to love and protect his Superman, and it would be…deplorable on his part to take more than he needed. Though he wanted to— _how he wanted to._ It was only the knowledge that if everything went according to plan, he would have his own Superman back, the way things used to be, that buttressed his resolve.

"I have the batwing stowed a few miles from here," Bruce said, as Clark changed into his costume at super speed. "I'll coordinate back-up and meet you there."

And off Superman went, to save a world that didn't need saving, at least, not at the moment. Bruce trudged back up to the bure on the hill amidst the raintrees to get a few things, and then headed for the portal and the problems in his own world.

:-:

Batman, rogue member of the Justice Lords, completed his time jump and found himself staring at his own house, at a point some fifteen years before the time period he so desperately wanted to fix, a time before he had donned cape and cowl, before he had fashioned the Batcave; a time when a seventeen year-old Bruce Wayne was home from Princeton for the summer break. Batman knew exactly where to find his younger self, and wanted to do so without the added complication of running into Alfred.

Keeping to the shadows, Batman made his way to the side of the house and over to the garages. He found his younger self underneath the hood of his most recently acquired black and red Bugatti.

He was proud that the young Bruce Wayne didn't even blink when he revealed himself and told his story. The boy merely listened, inspected the evidence Batman had brought along as proof, pulled out his laptop, did his own, independent investigation through the sources that were available to him at that time, and finally agreed to Batman's plan. Knowing his younger self the way he did, Batman was sure it was only the pictures of Clark dressed as Superman that had convinced him that a trip to Smallville to attend a high school dance in the middle of a tornado was necessary. No Bruce Wayne worth his salt would pass up an opportunity to meet a super powered kid from another planet in person. Especially when Batman carefully explained the unique nature of their future relationship.

:-:

Bruce Wayne entered the Smallville High gymnasium to the raucous sounds of teenagers partying, the sight of a crow mascot flapping and cawing on a tabletop, and the guitar riffs of a live band drowning out sanity.

He found a spot by the punch bowl and fingered the collar of his dress shirt gingerly, hoping he didn't look as out of place as he felt. If the lack of stares was any indication, he seemed to fit right in, despite the fact that he was actually a college student and had practically skipped the whole high school experience entirely. It seemed this was going to be the one time that his status as the seventeen year-old campus prodigy, who was so much younger than the rest of the graduating class at Princeton, was the perfect profile.

But now that he had let his older double convince him to play his part in what was, really, an unbelievable story, he was at a loss about what he should do next, how far he should reasonably be expected to take this…plan. It wasn't that he thought time travel was so far-fetched; actually, he had suspected such a possibility and had studied Einstein's theories for years, hoping to figure out…something…that he could use to change what had happened to his parents, however wild the possibility might be. It wasn't even the revelation that he would one day become a vigilante known as the Batman that had him at such a loss; after all, he had known his entire life that he would dedicate himself to some purpose, that he would do anything to make it so what had happened to his parents would never happen to another person in Gotham City—that part made perfect sense, and was even…gratifying. He obviously grew up to be a force to be reckoned with—and that was as it should be.

No, what he found completely unbelievable was that he'd ever love a guy named Clark Kent— _Superman;_ that he was expected to meet such a person tonight, and that this guy, who he didn't even _know_ would ever mean so much to him that he would try to change the whole world just to save the guy from himself.

He thought the entire scenario was impossible, until he got his first glimpse of the guy, standing a head taller than his classmates, in the middle of a circle of friends on the other side of the dance floor. And the one he knew to be Clark Kent, the young man who was to be the only person he would ever really love, turned, and their eyes locked. It was then that young Bruce Wayne became certain that every word his older self had spoken had been the absolute truth, and that it wasn't necessary to actually _do_ anything at all. That simply being in the same place at the same time necessitated a collision between the boy who would one day be Superman, and the boy who would one day be Batman.

Clark Kent was already on his way across the room, as if answering the call of a silent bell only he could hear, in his black tuxedo that made him look…like a movie star; with a smile that was wide and friendly, with curiosity in eyes the blue of the bluest sky.

"Um…hi," Clark said, stopping within arm's distance. "You don't go here—do you?"

Bruce tried a smile. Granted, it was somewhat rusty, but it seemed appropriate, especially since he was sure the churning of his stomach was turning his face somewhat green. "I—I'm visiting relatives."

"Really? That's great. Who?"

Bruce licked his lips, looking up into eyes that seemed to pierce him like twin rapiers. It was…harder than he had expected to lie when someone was looking at him…like that. "Uh…no one you know."

Clark tilted his head, clearly perplexed. "Are you sure about that? I know everyone hereabouts. Smallville is a small town—" Clark smiled, and again Bruce's stomach flipped and then dropped, "hence the name."

"Not in town," Bruce said quickly. "My uncle owns some land on the outskirts of the county. He lives in Metropolis but was coming out here to talk about selling some of it to Lex Luthor. I was bored and tagged along. I saw a flier and decided to wait my uncle out by hanging here. I didn't think anyone would mind."

"No, we don't mind," Clark agreed. "So you know Lex?"

"No, I don't know him. My uncle knows him. I just know _of_ him."

Again that perplexed look. "Well, my name's Clark. Clark Kent."

Bruce nodded. He already knew the guy's name.

Clark's eyebrows went up. "And you are…?"

"Oh—sorry. I'm Bruce. Bruce Wayne." He held out his hand. Clark shook it enthusiastically.

"Bruce," Clark said, taking him by the arm, "let me introduce you to some of my friends. I get the feeling a few of the girls are just dying to make your acquaintance."

Bruce nodded and let Clark steer him across the floor, smiling, greeting people when prompted, aware, distantly, that he was making quite a splash but really only focused on the tall guy with the eyes full of sky who never seemed to be far from his side. Who always had a ready grin and a gentle touch. Even though Clark was at the dance with a date—a cute blond girl in a beautiful red dress who was obviously completely smitten with her escort—he managed to play the perfect host, and even when he was in the middle of the floor, dancing with the girl, Bruce could feel his eyes, watching.

Later, when Clark disappeared after the announcement of the oncoming tornado, Bruce was actually…excited…that things seemed to be going according to plan. He never would have expected to feel such a keen sense of anticipation, but he did. _He did._

He said his goodbyes, and took the route around the storm that his elder self had specified. He arrived at the Kent Farm in time to save Martha Kent, and to be there when Clark arrived again, dirt covered and frantic to find his father. Bruce Wayne—not Lex Luthor—was the one who was there to provide support during the agonizing search; the one who provided hope and who came up with the idea to triangulate the cell phone signal to pinpoint Jonathan's location within three miles. Bruce Wayne was the one who thought to check the town plans to locate the site of the old church with the lead-lined storm cellar where they found Jonathan trapped.

Most importantly, Bruce was the one who was there when Clark, in his rush to save his father in time, had to reveal the extent of his special powers to the only person who had been with him through the whole ordeal.

When they finally made it back to the Kent's yellow farmhouse, it was with an intense feeling of…satisfaction…that he witnessed Martha Kent say to Clark, "You missed Lex, Clark. He came by earlier. His father was severely injured in the storm. Part of the mansion collapsed on him. Lex will be at Metropolis General until he has surgery. He wanted to make sure you were alright…"

But Bruce could tell Clark had little room in his thoughts for Lex Luthor. He only had attention enough for his father, and for the fact that his family was finally safe—and for the young man who had done so much to make it all possible. The young man who Clark wouldn't allow to move more than five feet away without following. The stranger who his eyes adored and his hands couldn't help but touch at any reasonable opportunity.

It only took a few more lies— _and what were a few harmless lies when a love was at stake?_ Bruce finally understood—to procure the invitation to stay until he could contact his uncle. It was in the barn, on the sofa in Clark's loft, that the two of them met their destiny, both experiencing love for the first time. It was in a barn on a farm in Kansas that Clark explained everything about his powers, his heritage, and Bruce explained everything about the time traveler and his future mission, and the time he would have to spend away, training. It was on a sofa in the Kent barn, in the presence of a crescent moon and all the stars, that seventeen year-old Bruce Wayne closed Clark's heart to Lex Luthor—forever.

:-:

Batman jumped though the portal and into his own present, expecting everything to be different but more relieved than he would admit to find…everything— _everything_ —as it should be. Slowly, the reordered memories were sinking into his mind, and it was with a great feeling of satisfaction that he checked his files on the Batcave computer to find that there never existed a Justice _Lords._ That he, Superman and Wonder Woman had founded a Justice _League._ They were all still fighting the good fight, on the right side of justice with their code of honor intact, himself still preserving the memory of his parents and every freedom they would have held dear, knowing they would have been proud of him and all that he had managed to accomplish. And Wally—The Flash was alive and well—now.

Most of all, he felt that inimitable inner vibration that told him all was right between him and Superman. As he tied up loose ends, implementing the last parts of his plan, he could feel the keen sense of anticipation rising, until it was late enough in the evening and he could wait no longer. He placed the call and headed upstairs to the master bedroom.

When Superman arrived on his balcony, framed by moonlight in his familiar primary colors and smiling just for him, Bruce knew that the long years with a stranger were over. He had his Superman back, the one he loved more than anything still living, the one he felt he had loved forever. Everything he had done to reach this moment, every lie, every deception, had been worth it.

And afterwards—as they lay entwined on the bed and Clark stroked his hair gently, whispering silly endearments that were like notes to a song in perfect tune, Bruce felt free enough to want confirmation, from Clark's own mouth of everything that had been accomplished.

"I can't believe they elected Lex Luthor president,'" Bruce said quietly into Clark's shoulder, into the comfortable hush that surrounded them. "You'd think the electorate would have more _sense._ Don't these people read the _paper?"_ Then Bruce amended dryly, "Or listen to the news if they can't read?"

Bruce could feel Clark's gentle shrug. "It galls me, too. Luthor is a criminal, but the people only see the spin he puts on everything. It drives me crazy that this country elected him, and, I suppose, I'm in a unique position to do something about it." Bruce stilled, waiting. "But it's not my place to substitute my judgment for the will of the people—even if I know they made the wrong choice." Clark paused. "Even if Luthor takes us all to hell in a hand basket." Again, a pause. "My mother and father always warned me that despite all my gifts, I couldn't protect the entire world, I couldn't save _everyone,_ nor should I even try. I wasn't sent here to use my abilities to steal from humanity the power of _choice;_ the ability to live a life grounded in self-determination, without the interference of a super powered alien."

Bruce sighed, and snuggled down into the perfect spot on Clark's chest, and wriggled until Clark wrapped his arms around him.

"But I reserve the right to stop any nuclear weapon that he sets off," Clark added, as an afterthought, chuckling. "I draw the line at blowing up the world. I think I can reasonably assume that the majority of the people would prefer not to be blown up or to be the victims of nuclear fallout, no matter how ill-informed their voting choices might have been."

Bruce nodded his head. "I think we can agree that stopping a nuclear device is an acceptable activity."

"Good."

Bruce started licking around one of Clark's nipples, and the arms that were wrapped around him tightened. Bruce could feel the answering hardness pressed against his leg. "I always thought you had a sore spot for Luthor…" he said teasingly.

Clark started stroking his back. "I…wish he could be a better man. He has…so much potential."

Bruce lifted his head, looked Clark in the eyes. "Clark…have you ever been…involved with Lex?"

"Involved?"

"Don't play dumb, farmboy. I remember he was in Smallville…"

"And you ask this now…?" Clark sighed, kissed him, then answered reluctantly. "I was involved with him briefly. Very…briefly. He was…obsessed with me, and I was young, and he could be…charming—when he wanted to be. He was my friend…for a time."

Clark started his stroking again, and became more insistent, more concentrated on certain parts of the body, to produce a specific response. Bruce could feel the heat rising, rising from his toes to cheeks. He began to fidget, already anticipating release.

"But as a lover, he was only ever really a substitute, Bruce." Clark's voice lowered to a husky growl. _"For you._ It's always been you, Bruce…"

 _"It's always been you…"_

:-:

Batman, formerly of the Justice Lords, currently of the Justice League, sat in his chair in the Batcave and initiated the sequence that would allow him to peer into the other dimension, the one with the other Justice League, the alternate reality that had enabled him to save his own world. He found his double arguing with his Superman. Again, they were arguing about Fiji, and the fact that Superman couldn't understand what had taken place there, what had changed. The distress this was causing him was plainly evident. Batman hoped what he had left for his double in the Batcave would be enough to fix their relationship. He knew it would be enough for himself—and he couldn't believe he and his double were so divergent in the way they felt, the way they thought about Superman that the other Batman wouldn't be able to seize the opportunity of a lifetime when it was placed in his lap.

He was counting on the fact that Batman loved Superman, regardless of the dimension. He was counting on the fact that every endearment he had ever spoken to any version of Superman at any time or place was the truth and would be the truth, regardless of the version of himself that said it. He hoped his double wouldn't make a liar out of him.

:-:

Bruce placed the case file down on the console and steepled his fingers while he tried to slow his heartbeat, reason his way though the information left for him by the former Justice Lord, but it was impossible to think rationally when he _burned_ with disgust and indignation— _jealousy, rage_ —at what his double had done to Clark… _with Clark. His Clark._

There were pictures, video footage, detailed notes of a time Clark thought he had spent with him, that he thought they had spent _together._ Only, it wasn't him. Bruce picked up the file and threw it across the cave, followed by his coffee cup, and clipboard, and anything else that came to hand.

It was only later, when he was cleaning up, that he found the note. He wasn't sure how he had missed it, but it was now in his hand, in his own easily recognizable handwriting:

Batman,

Obviously, you have a problem, or you will have a problem, if not now, then one day. I know I would want to prepare. I don't think my solution is the proper one for you, obviously. I don't suggest you mess with your timeline. It's too dangerous, and to be meddled with only as a last resort, only if you fail in the task herein specified. But you have the benefit of foresight, while I had to work with hindsight. You can't _obviate_ Luthor's influence, but you can _mitigate_ it. You can love him, _completely._ You can use love and trust to wipe away the memory of any other person from his heart. You can give him what he needs to be strong, to resist the ultimate temptation when Luthor brings the whole world to the brink of destruction yet again, though I know it goes completely against your nature.

I have blazed a trail for you. He loves you already, and in our week together, I told him everything about me, _about you._ I told him all the things I know you would never say, my doppelganger—because only _I_ truly know the consequences of not saying it. You should thank me—though I know you never will.

So when his time comes—and it will come someday—when he'll have to decide what to do about his arch nemesis, what he _should_ do to protect the world, he will have your love to guide him, brighter because of my involvement. And Luthor's influence, the love that was born in youth, will be only a distant memory, dry like the dust, pale in comparison. He will have a shield of cool indifference, rather than a blaze of bitter hatred guiding his hand.

So don't hate me for touching him, Bruce Wayne, The Batman of your Gotham City. It needed to be done, and knowing the man that you are, I'm sure you can appreciate the need for expediency when two worlds are at stake. You should thank me, though I know you never will.

Yours,  
Batman

Bruce let the note fall from nerveless fingers, turned, walked slowly to the computer console, paused for what seemed to him a lifetime, and put in a call to Superman.

:-:

 **Epilogue**

He watches, and is more satisfied than he has ever been at any other time in his life. The Superman and Batman on the screen, enjoying the pleasure of each other for the first time, are like a moving reflection of his own lovemaking with Clark, infinitely beautiful, absolutely sublime. He watches as they both reach their heights, climaxing together, echoing a joy he is as familiar with as the reverse of his own face in a mirror. It is only when Bruce Wayne, his double, his brother from another dimension who is half buried beneath an exhausted Clark Kent, turns his head over Clark's shoulder and seems to be looking directly at him, with eyes the cold, hard color of Arctic ice, that Batman, formerly of the Justice Lords, now of the Justice League, knows that everything is as it should be and this is the last time he will be watching, else he risks calling down his own wrath upon himself.

 _finis_


End file.
